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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26733898">One Held Breath (It's Gonna Be Ok, I Promise, It's Just Hard Right Now, OK?)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ottsky/pseuds/Ottsky'>Ottsky</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Blaseball (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crabs vs Dale Season 8, Incineration Prevention</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:07:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>692</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26733898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ottsky/pseuds/Ottsky</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>One Held Breath (It's Gonna Be Ok, I Promise, It's Just Hard Right Now, OK?) or, "OR, THE MOMENT THE SEASON ONE FLOWERS PLAYERS REALISED THAT MAYBE IT WASN'T ALL FOR NOTHING"<br/>----------------------</p><p>Just a really quick, small fic that was done to imagine where each of the Flowers Players that were still around from season 1 were at the moment that Beck Whitney incinerated a Rogue Umpire that was trying to incinerate her. We took some creative liberties with where the players were, and we absolutely took some creative liberties with the scene (hells, the dale weren't even up to bat!) It just worked really nicely in our head this way, and because the piece is more about the Flowers than Beck, we felt it was okay.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>One Held Breath (It's Gonna Be Ok, I Promise, It's Just Hard Right Now, OK?)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Boston+Flowers+Fanbase">Boston Flowers Fanbase</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Margarito had the TV on. ¡Dale! was playing; against the Crabs no less. A hard game for anyone to play, but a good game to have in the background. Xe was often too busy between the bar and playing to watch, but Xe also had a deep affection for watching xir old manager (now manager in absentia) play. </p><p> </p><p>Eighth Inning. Crabs up by one. Beck walks up to the batter box.</p><p> </p><p>Chambers, or “Ace” as everyone called him nowadays, didn’t quite remember where he was. Then the Radio grabbed his attention once more. <em> Oh, yes. </em> Blaseball. It was a darn shame that young firebrand Beck had gotten grabbed by the feedback. Darn good player. The team had been having a rough time as of late, feeling a bit unmoored after everything that’s happened.</p><p> </p><p>Beck steps into the box, taking a moment to breathe and center herself. <em> A run would be real good right now for the ¡Dale! </em>, some colour commentator states, narrating the splort to audiences all over the various planes.</p><p> </p><p>Zeb was busy tending to his garden. A quiet prune here, watering there, gentle nudging and encouragement without words to the various plants in his care. The only sound was a small Wind Up Radio that someone had gifted him. He had the game on, listening, feeling the positive energy flowing about him. </p><p> </p><p>There is a nervous energy in the stadium, a static, a dry heat. Something is about to happen. No one knows what...but something is about to happen.</p><p> </p><p>Castillo was practicing. Sure, the Flowers didn’t have a game for another while yet. Sure, a bloodless pitching machine was not quite the same as a true pitcher. But as he always put it: <em> Life’s a Garden. Dig it. </em>So here he was. The only thing separating him from his practice being the sounds of a game on the TV. Beck was up to plate - Why wouldn’t he watch? She was who helped him on the team. That felt like a long time ago.</p><p> </p><p>Storm clouds coming.</p><p> </p><p>King Weatherman furrowed his brow. That wasn’t quite right. He had a strict non-interference policy about weather, certainly, but a storm? Localised on the ¡Dale! Stadium? In the middle of a game like this?</p><p> </p><p>From the void, from a rip in reality - A pair of orange eyes glow, and step onto the party platform that is the Miami Stadium. A Rogue Umpire has Come.</p><p> </p><p>Owen was in a good place, all things considered, right up until that moment. He liked to think of the positives, and it was easy to think of them when he was taking a moment of respite. And then the TV flickered, static on the picture as… </p><p> </p><p>Beck Whitney, Vampire, Woman of loss and of Triumph, spotted that Umpire. She stopped, she stared. Everyone knew what came next, every time prior.</p><p> </p><p>    Jacob Haynes had been jogging, on a treadmill, but the treadmill spun quietly, without him on it, now. Watching. His favorite plodcast had been turned off at the start of the game, the airplods he used sitting unused on a simple table. He was watching this all over again. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>
    <span class="u">Incineration comes next.</span>
  </strong>
</p><p> </p><p>    The Old Growth Flowers took a breath in, collectively, as they felt their bodies tense, and their jaws set, and their eyes narrow, and their hearts stop, for just a moment.</p><p> </p><p>The umpire takes it’s awful, flaming hand, and raises it up. Deep puffs of smoke pour from behind that mask, obscuring everything but those deep orange eyes. Those eyes of flame and fire of punishment.</p><p> </p><p>Beck Whitney steels herself. She stops, and she-</p><p> </p><p>The Umpire brings his fist down in an enormous smashing motion-</p><p> </p><p>Beck Whitney’s bat connects with the fist. There is a beautiful, all encompassing <b> <em>PWING</em> </b>.</p><p> </p><p>The Umpire’s fist is held, for a moment, above Beck, Inches from engulfing her,</p><p> </p><p>The Swing Follows Through</p><p> </p><p>The Umpire Pauses, It’s Fist thrown up, as the fire on it’s hand crawls down it’s arm-</p><p> </p><p>Beck Whitney Stands Proud. For the Flowers. For ¡Dale!. For Caligula. For Everyone.</p><p> </p><p>The Umpire incinerates.</p><p> </p><p>    And the breath is released.</p><p> </p><p>    Jacob Hayes smiles just a little bit. “...Onwards and Upwards, friend.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>First time we're writing blaseball fanfic, and we're still getting a handle on it. The team is very very different from what we've written for in the past, which is fine, but it's also very noticeable that we usually write for other fandoms, at least we think so.</p><p>Also, "Original Growth" as a backfill for OG felt really fun and cute so we absolutely ran with it when we realised that was an option.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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